


Here Be Dragons

by Winter_of_our_Discontent



Series: The Once and Future BAMF [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arthurian, Gen, I'm using my degree for this, Kink Meme, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, arthuriana is all fanfic anyway, not actually a crossover with Merlin, the once and future bamf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is Merlin, powerful, immortal, and bored out of his skull (both of them) waiting for King Arthur's return. John, on the other hand, is completely average. Sure, he's had odd dreams his whole life, and a bit of an obsession with Stonehenge, and now ravens are visiting him... but he's still a completely ordinary bloke. Really.</p><p>The King has returned, and London wakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For the most part, Sherlock could tolerate the twenty-first century.  Of course, people didn’t change that much, even over centuries, but there were always _things_ going on now, and he was entirely fond of cell phones and the internet.  They certainly would have improved the eighteenth century, which he’d found to be essentially a write-off.

Now if Arthur would get off his metaphysical arse and finally _come back_.... the waiting was hard, and had only gotten the slightest bit easier by sheer dint of practice.  He’d given up watching the royal family back in the nineteenth century.... kings no longer needed to be all that Arthur had been, and he’d have been bored to tears being just a figurehead.  That just left the rest of the kingdom... because whatever else Arthur was, he was British down to the marrow of his being, and so that was unlikely to change.  That left him with several hundred thousand babies being born each year and not even he could track that many.  Besides, all those babies... enough to make you shudder, and though Arthur as a baby... well, Arthur would probably find a way to be impressive even then, but the rest didn’t interest him for even a second and he’d decided he just couldn’t be bothered.  

Which meant that for the most part, he’d have to rely on Arthur finding _him_ , or in Arthur doing something so obvious Sherlock would finally be able to locate him.  And he had to believe that would work, Arthur was... Arthur, and they were tied together, and when he came back there was simply no way they wouldn’t find each other again.  Even if Arthur couldn’t remember him, or his past, or... well, anything else.  He’d still be Arthur, and it would all work out somehow.  If only Arthur would bloody well _return_.

***

When John was nine, his entire class had been dragged on a field trip to Stonehenge.  The bus trip had been long and boring, the site only an improvement because it meant no longer being cooped up.  By the time they’d walked across the sheep field to the orange plastic guard fence, there was already muttering about how it looked better in pictures (and bigger!  loads bigger!) and why were they out here in the cold looking at a stupid pile of rocks anyway.

But John wasn’t listening to that, because he’d seen the standing stones, and they were _marvellous_.  He tuned out the other students, and the teacher’s attempt to explain to a group of bored nine and ten year olds how primitive Britons must have used logs and waterways to move the stones from their quarrying site, in favour of pressing his body against the fence in an effort to get closer that would have probably torn the plastic if he’d been any older or bigger.  He wanted to close his eyes and see them fixed and whole in their circle, but that would have meant not looking at them now, so that was out.

At the gift shop, before they left, he’d bought a postcard and told his classmates it was for his mum, so he wouldn’t get teased.

***

Bedivere worked for New Scotland Yard now, which made sense, he’d always been at least marginally sensible with a dedication to keeping the peace, not just going off on half-bollocksed quests every time you turned around.  (Most of them, if you so much as *hinted* there was a strange castle or, in Gawain’s case, an attractive woman in a strange castle, they were off like hounds after hares.) When Sherlock had first discovered him there’d been an odd sensation in his chest it had taken him a bit to characterize as hope.  It had to be a good sign, hadn’t it, to find one of the knights again, and in London no less.  

He’d gotten excited enough to rush home and check the prophecies afterwards, which he never did if he could help it. Useless, dusty things that sounded like complete twaddle to anyone until it was too late to do any good, even when he was the one doing the reciting he usually couldn’t make sense of them.  

“You looking at those again?  You’ve not touched them since the Blitz.”

“Sod off.”  

The skull, not used to getting reactions out of Sherlock, was not about to be stopped. “You’ve found something, haven’t you?  Or someone?”  Unfortunately, it had been around Sherlock long enough to have picked up a bit of his methods.  “Someone, and _not_ you-know-who, or you wouldn’t care.”  

Sherlock didn’t bother answering it, though the glare he sent was probably answer enough. Unfortunately, he’d quickly found that having a talking skull was a great deal less of a good idea than it had sounded at the time, which should teach him to get drunk after seeing the first performance of _Hamlet_.

“Try the brown one, under the red, page 732, next to last chapter.”

The one up side to having a bored semi-incarnate entity with a great deal of free time was its tendency to read and reread anything left within a certain radius.  The down side was when said entity developed a fondness for Mills and Boon. If he ever bothered with a television, Sherlock had no doubt the skull would immediately become an _EastEnders_ addict. In fact, that was a great deal of the reason he hadn’t bothered with a television.

Ah, yes, brown book, there it was...

And two minutes later Sherlock had remembered why he didn’t bother with them in the first place, because it was all stupid poetic _rubbish_ about circles and wounds and horses and battlefields and it was all he could do to not toss the ancient leather and gilded parchment in the rubbish bin because how was that supposed to help him _right now_?

The skull must have sensed his mood, because the light in its eye sockets dimmed briefly before it offered a hesitant  “Cheer up, you’ll find him in time.”

Sherlock laughed, a frustrated painful little burst rather like he’d just been kicked, because of course he had _time_ , he had all the time in the whole damned world, that was the ruddy _problem_ , sometimes he felt all the years wrapped around him like a bloody fucking straightjacket, and what good was being him and immortal and ridiculously idiotically powerful even if he rarely used it if all it meant was waiting around forever for the one man that had actually made any of it _mean_ anything?

He started on cocaine the next day.


	2. Chapter 2

In secondary school, John considered himself a decent rugby player and no slouch at football, but when it came to teams for Capture the Flag, he was always picked first. Because he was ruddy brilliant at tactics.

He’d have done well on the debate team, the advisor knew, except that he was complete rubbish at arguing anything other than the side he agreed with. The first time he’d tried, he’d ended up looking sheepish and downcast after his opponent had laid out her case. His expression had as much said “yeah, that sounds about right,” and he hadn’t managed to get out a word of the rebuttal and facts he’d carefully researched and written down earlier. It was a shame, really, because he was bright enough and quietly charismatic enough to have done well in the law, or even politics, if he’d only not been quite as honest as he looked.

***

After his A levels, which he’d passed, he’d told his family he planned to become a doctor. They’d been pleased just as long as it had taken him to explain that he planned to use the military to pay for it, because he was going to be a doctor in the RAMF. That’s when the yelling had started, Harry asking why he always had to be such a bloody Boy Scout, his mother crying that her baby boy was going to get killed, to go off and leave them (still a very sensitive subject after his father’s abandonment of them over a decade ago). John had stood his ground with feet apart and shoulders square, already looking more than a bit like the soldier he’d just signed up to be.

He moved out a few weeks after, sick of his mum’s silent treatment and not even answering the phone when Harry called from uni. All of the possessions going with him could fit in his knapsack, his family had never had much and now most of it felt more like millstones than mementos.

John did take the dog-eared postcard of Stonehenge with him, though.

***

“This _again,_ Sherlock?”

“Mind your own ruddy business, Mycroft.” One of these incarnations Sherlock was going to make sure he was listed as the older brother for a change, though it probably wouldn’t affect Mycroft’s ability to look disapproving. He’d despaired in any time period of finding a way of keeping Mycroft out of his flat if he got it in his head to visit.

“Cocaine now? What was it the last time? Absinthe and morphine?” Mycroft knew very well what it had been, just as he knew the exact date Sherlock had quit those, or the times before that he’d just tried to drink himself into hibernation, before humans had gotten as creative about methods of manufacturing oblivion.

“That was over a century ago, _Mycroft,_ as you well know.”

“Yes, I think we were Mycroft and Sherlock then as well.” Mycroft sighed. “Must be something in the names. Perhaps we should consider removing them from the rotation?”

“I _like_ Sherlock,” he replied with just a hint of petulance.

Mycroft’s put-upon expression was the work of centuries of refinement. “If you respond this poorly to finding Bedivere it’s just as well I hadn’t yet told you about the white hart sightings.”

“You knew?” Sherlock pulled himself up to what was almost a sitting position on the sofa.

“Of course I knew, I recommended him for promotion to DI.” Mycroft made a small motion with his hand. “We both know he’ll do a more than competent job.“

He couldn’t stop himself from sitting up all the way, arms scrabbling for purchase on the back of the sofa, even if the sudden movement did horrible things to the chemical cocktail currently passing as his brain. “Then...”

“No, Sherlock, still nothing, and I’d not have kept _that_ from you.” And he knew, much though he’d hate to admit it, that he could trust Mycroft in that at least.

“Why isn’t he _back yet_?”

He avoided looking at Mycroft then, not wanting to see anything that could be construed as sympathy in his eyes.

“My offer to join the government remains open...”

“No.” Government, anything to do with ruling, wasn’t at all interesting if Arthur wasn’t involved, and Mycroft was perfectly capable of handling it all himself anyway like he’d been doing for centuries, the smug git.

“Of course.” Mycroft sighed again, then stared directly at Sherlock, not bothering to hide the flash of red behind his eyes. “But you should consider this... a white hart has been spotted near Salisbury. Bedivere, at least, is back. The signs point to him arriving shortly, and should that be the case, do you really want him to see you as a drug addict?”

Sherlock pulled a cushion over his face and held it there until he’d heard Mycroft leave the flat.

He waited another hour and a half before making a call to the small, discreet clinic whose business card Mycroft had left on the table.

 

***

Sometimes, in the desert, John dreams. He dreams of fields, and great forests with oaks, their trunks wider than he is tall. He dreams of people he’s never met and places he’s sure he hasn’t been. (And Stonehenge. Still Stonehenge.) He dreams of a dark-haired man who can perform miracles. And he dreams of battles, which is stupid, because surely he’s seeing enough battles here to keep his subconscious happy. But these battles are full of mud and steel and colour instead of dust and explosions, and he’s not in the background fixing people, but is instead out there in the thick of it trying to get the other poor bastards before they can get him.

He dreams of a wound in his leg that won’t heal, and when he wakes up sometimes he almost limps before he reminds himself that it was just a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are myriad versions of the Arthurian stories, making them some of the earliest (and most enduring) examples of fanfiction. For the version I'm using, I've taken Malory, Monmouth, Marie de France, Chretien de Troyes, White, Stewart, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, extant historical sources on British history, things I remember from field trips, anything else I had laying around, a fifth of vodka, and hit blend. (I'm kidding. It wasn't vodka. It was rum. And coffee.)


	3. Chapter 3

Half a world away from London, a lone doctor in a field hospital manages to hold off several dozen insurgents for over twenty hours. The insurgents sustain heavy casualties, but miraculously, the two nurses and all the hospital’s wounded are left unscathed by the shelling. When backup finally arrives, the doctor insists on finishing the rest of his shift and checking on all of the patients before he’ll consent to sleep. The paperwork for a medal is begun before his head hits the pillow.

***

“The killer had a dog, long-haired, likely an Irish setter mix...” Sherlock stood from his crouch, still staring at the corpse. “One of her neighbors has a dog in the flat illegally, she was going to report them, they argued, pushed her, she hit her head, the neighbor panicked and tried to make it look like a break-in. But you hardly have tea with a burglar, do you?” he gestured to the sink, where two empty mugs sat forlornly on an empty counter. “She was tidy, yet the mugs aren’t washed, still residue from the leaves and sugar... careless of them not to clean up. Boring.”

He glanced at the police in the room with him. “The neighbor’s dog will be staying with the boyfriend for a few days, but the hairs will still be around if you look when you interview. She’s kept the victim’s jewelry, because she’s been too nervous to pawn it or throw it out, that should be more than enough evidence. Mention that the fish have died and she’ll likely confess anyway.”

Bedivere (as was, Lestrade now, must remember) waved his officers out of the room. As soon as they’d left, Sherlock added, “Of course you know that because she’s already confessed, and this was all a test.”

Lestrade is too much an officer to look sheepish, but it’s close. “I can’t expect my superiors to take your... theories seriously unless I can show them you’re good on the crimes we already have answers to.”

“Well, at least make sure they arrest the boyfriend, he’s an accessory to the killing even if she’s trying to cover for him, and you’ll find he’s wanted under another name for embezzlement in Leith.” He pulled the latex gloves off with a snap and shoved them in one of his pockets. “And maybe now that I’ve passed you can let me in on some of the actually interesting cases. I know there’s a string of so-called mercy killings you lot aren’t having any luck on, and the bank robbery a fortnight ago practically has dust on it.”

Sherlock had been clean for several months now, and felt certain his idea of helping the police solve crimes might be his best since the time he’d decided to teach John Harrison clockmaking.

When he’d finally gotten out of rehab, he’d decided to start stalk…. _following_ Bedivere around, since he was currently the best lead Sherlock had.

He’d begun by spending several weeks hovering at the edges of crime scenes in various disguises, including cleaning women, sidewalk vendors, a press photographer, and various homeless persons. Then he’d become bored just observing Bed... _Lestrade_ and his team, and had turned some of his attention to the actual crime scenes themselves.

They were _fascinating._ Well, most of them were so straightforward the murderers may as well have pinned handwritten confessions on the bodies, but every so often there’d be one he couldn’t solve without getting closer to the bodies. Which meant he needed to find a way to get closer to the bodies.

At that point Sherlock had abandoned the disguises and begun wearing suits, though it frustrated him to do anything that could be interpreted as even vaguely resembling something Mycroft-ish. It had taken weeks more of showing up at crime scenes, loudly making observations about the victims, perpetrators, and various officers present, until Bedivere had let him through the blue tape because he’d promised if he couldn’t demonstratively solve it in under ten minutes, he would go away and stay away.

He’d solved it in six.

To keep solving crimes vaguely challenging, he’d decided to use nothing more than mundane senses and facts. He’d already been called a freak by one of Lestrade’s minions, which was almost amusing in its wrongheadedness. If he’d summoned fire or caused plants to bloom out of season, certainly, he’d have at least understood it, goodness knows he’d seen that reaction before, but being called names for bothering to actually use the five senses all normal humans had was laughable.

Lestrade, at least, never called him names, and while Sherlock could tell he irritated the man on a semi-constant basis, the policeman was too intelligent to let annoyance get in the way of solving crimes and generally helping people as he’d signed on to do.

In a slightly manic mood, Sherlock put his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder for just a moment, said fondly, “You always were one of my favourite knights” and then dashed out the door and down the front steps, already calling for a cab.

Lestrade decided it was just as well no one else had heard that, he had a hard enough time getting his squad to work with the volatile ‘consulting detective’ without Sherlock Holmes getting any odder than he already was.

Which, after all, was pretty bloody odd.

***

The thing about being in the RAMC is that you’re not actually supposed to see much combat. You’re to be kept back from the front lines of the conflict while still being close enough to the action that you can duel Death for the lives of wounded soldiers.

The thing about Afghanistan is that there aren’t any front lines. Or perhaps it’s all front lines. Only they’re shaped like fractals. Or something.

The point is that logically, there should not be a bullet speeding through the dusk in a trajectory that will take it entirely through Captain John Watson’s shoulder and into the ground beyond him.

Of course, nothing else about this war has ever been logical.

He thinks “Oh God, please let me live” and then, just before things go mercifully black, “Oh bloody fucking _hell,_ not _again.”_

 

  
_And noble Kynge Arthure felle in swoughe to the erthe, and there he sowned oftyntymes; and Sir Lucan and Sir Bedwere offtetymys hove hym up, and so waykly betwyxte them they lad hum to a lytell chapell nat farre frome the see-- and whan the Kyng was there, he thought hym resonabely eased._   


  
\--Sir Thomas Malory  


  



	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

 _One for Sorrow  
Two for joy  
Three for a girl  
Four for a boy  
Five for silver  
Six for gold  
Seven for a secret never to be told  
Eight for a wish  
Nine for a kiss  
Ten a surprise you should be careful not to miss  
Eleven for health  
Twelve for wealth  
Thirteen beware it's the devil himself.  
-English Folk Rhyme_

Many Londoners made it a point of pride to dislike the Tower. Everyone, of course, has been dragged there at least once on a field trip, but they took great delight in mocking the out-of-towners and, worse, the tourists, some of whom apparently expected the Tower itself and the rest of London to be some sort of particularly authentic ‘Renaissance Faire.’

Sherlock disliked the Tower because all the layers of history tended to get a bit jumbled there, like a kaleidoscope that wouldn’t stop turning, and because all the ghosts, and there were a multitude, tended to swarm when he visited, and frankly, their stories hadn’t become more interesting over time. _Yes,_ it was unfortunate that Sir Walter had gotten on the wrong side of the King, though he’d been a bloody idiot for coming back, _no,_ he knew Queen Anne hadn’t been unfaithful... and he still wasn’t entirely sure what the ghost of the bear was doing there. And if those idiot princes tried to start one more snowball fight with him...

But sometimes, when he needed a favour, he dragged himself there anyway.

He didn’t bother with any of the main gates. The Tower was full of secrets, still, and only one other person alive knew more of them than him. One of those secrets was a tunnel in beneath the dry moat, letting him bypass the lines, gift shops, and the ever more outrageous ticket prices.

He emerged just past the inner ward near the hospital block, unseen by visitors or guards thanks to a spell he’d put on before exiting. Not _quite_ invisibility, it was more of a “nothing to see here, move along” thing that rendered him unworthy of prolonged notice, even by tourists. And would render him a blur on cameras or video recorders. He preferred it to proper invisibility, which was more than useless in crowded areas, because people did tend to notice consistently bumping in to things that weren’t there.

Sherlock stood quietly on the South Lawn until the first of the ravens landed a few feet away, just far enough not to look intentional.

“Hello, Gwyllum.”

Gwyllum let out a loud caw and was promptly joined by three others.

“Thor, Eric, Hugine,” Sherlock politely nodded at each in turn. “I hope today finds you well. Munin, Baldrick, Marley, thank you for coming.”

He’d chosen a time when the Ravenmaster would be otherwise engaged and soon after they’d had their weekly rabbit and were at their most amenable. He’d also told Lestrade he’d actually have to try and solve crimes on his own for the next few days. (“I’m not on my own, Sherlock, I have my team.” “Quite.”)

They spent a pleasant few minutes catching up, the ravens giving a glowing report on the current Ravenmaster and Sherlock remembering to enquire about a recent clutch of Munin and Eric’s eggs. Then he got down to business.

“I’d like to offer you the usual arrangement,” he said, making eye contact with each in turn, but focusing on Gwyllum, the oldest and the acknowledged leader. “A sennight of roaming, while I remain here to keep the balance of the Tower. You will return the next rabbit-day, and tell me anything you’ve seen.”

He crouched down, keeping eye contact with Gwyllum. Slowly, he reached out a hand, palm up, and waited for them to accept or reject his bargain.

Gwyllum twisted his head around as though to scratch a back itch, then carefully pulled out one of his feathers. He toddled over to Sherlock, dropping his feather in the outstretched hand. Sherlock nodded, once. In a movement almost too quick to be seen, Gwyllum pecked at his finger, strong enough to draw blood. Luckily, Gwyllum’s control was good enough to not do any further damage with his rather vicious looking beak. Sherlock nodded again, and closed his hand, smearing his blood on the blue-black feather. The bargain had been sealed.

The ravens took to the air, their newly regrown lifting feathers quickly taking them over the walls and out into the approaching dusk. Their faint cries sounded like laughter.

Sherlock remained still as his body shrank down and modified itself in entirely uncomfortable ways. There was another reason he waited until after they’d had their rabbit, it was bad enough enduring a week of blood-soaked biscuits without transforming back and having to get fur out of his teeth as well.

***

John had been terribly excited to be given the bed near the window, because now they’d quit giving him the really good stuff and were only giving him the moderately alright stuff, everything hurt *and* he was bored. It would have been a great deal easier to ignore the former if not for the latter.

He assumed they’d told Harry about the injuries, as she was still listed as next of kin. He hadn’t heard from her yet. Since ignoring him utterly was still preferable to a drunken phone call alternating between weeping and yelling ‘I told you so’s for good measure, he felt rather like he’d at least dodged that emotional bullet.

Nice to know he could still dodge some of them.

Unfortunately it turned out that from his bed, the only thing visible out the window was the grey, unchanging sky. Limping over to the window (the doctors claimed it was psychosomatic, but John had the instinctive distrust of doctors for anything said about them by other doctors) he discovered the view was only slightly better: some concrete office buildings and a carpark. The England of his dreams was always green, he’d forgotten how much it was also grey. At the moment, it was also drizzling a bit. ‘England’s verdant fields’ indeed.

He leaned the cane against the wall and gripped the lower half of the window, putting his uninjured shoulder into the task of forcing the window up and open. It clearly had been shut for years, long enough to have acquired several coats of a colour he’d come to think of as ‘institutional off-white‘ and a scattering of dead insects on the sill.

The paint flaked as the wooden frame finally moved upward. John managed to push it up about a foot before his strength gave out, leaving him to sag against the wall while he caught his breath. Opening the window was a stupid, childish thing to do, and the nurses would likely give him hell for compromising the hospital’s air circulation and, of course, for straining his still healing body, but he felt better for having done it.

When he could breathe normally again, he gripped his cane and limped back to recline on his bed. Some former occupant had left behind a few old paperbacks, and while none of them were ones John would have personally chosen, beggars and choosers and all that.

Thus occupied, he did not immediately notice the raven that flew in the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to me, happy birthday to me, here's a new chapter to celebrate, happy birthday to me.
> 
> Ongoing gratefulness and thanks to my amazing beta, LaReineNoire, and to stupid_drawings, who keeps me company in coffeeshops while I write.


	5. Chapter 5

_“A Hedgehog loaded with apples shall rebuild the town and, attracted by the smell of these apples, birds will flock there from many different forests.”  
-From the Prophecies of Merlin as recorded by Geoffrey of Monmouth_

***

There was a raven at the foot of the bed.

John looked at the raven. The raven looked at John. The stare-off held for at least thirty seconds before John’s manners kicked in.

“Hello,” he said politely. “Bit wet out there, yeah?”

“Caw.”

John knew he wasn’t hallucinating, because everything hurt too much for him to have been on anything strong enough to have made him see things.

“It goes something like… ‘One for sorrow, two for joy’… I don’t suppose you’ve brought a friend with you, have you?”

The raven canted its head to the right.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make the Nevermore joke, I’m sure you get that a lot.”

John hadn’t known ravens could look amused, but this one certainly did.

“I’d offer you something to eat, but…” John gestured around the bare hospital room. “And frankly, the food here is awful.”

“Caw.”

Okay, he knew talking with birds was an odd thing to be about, but it _had_ flown in here and there was something disturbingly intelligent about its gaze. Besides, it was the first conversation he’d had in days that wasn’t with a member of the staff.

“So…”

The raven took a few steps closer to him, almost close enough for him to touch. It twisted its head around as though scratching its back, then with a smooth movement pulled out a feather. It took another step forward and dropped it next to John.

“Oh, thanks. It’s a very nice feather. Very... black.”

The raven preened slightly. It took a few more steps, and it occurred to John that he probably should worry that a wild bird was getting so close to him, but the bird was so eerily well behaved. At least, until it suddenly moved towards his head and he felt a quick sharp pulling sensation.

“Oi! Bloody...” the raven was back on the bed, carefully out of reach, with several strands of his hair in its rather vicious looking beak. John ran his hands over his head then checked them for any signs of blood. Why the damned bird had suddenly decided to attack him… He glared at it, wondering if he had anything to throw besides the paperback.

The raven looked slight reproachful, then stepped forward to nudge its feather towards him with its foot before moving back out of range.

Suddenly it clicked. “A… trade? Oh.” John had no idea what to say to that. “Well, you might have warned me.”

The bird gave him another long, considering look, strands of his hair still visible in its beak, before abruptly turning and flying back out the window.

A day or two later, he would almost be able to convince himself he must have dreamt the whole thing but for the coal black feather marking his place in _The Once and Future King._

***

The ravens returned right on… well, time was relative when you were a bird or just transformed temporarily into one, but they returned at the agreed-upon time.

Sherlock rolled his neck and shoulders, cracking and snapping various things while his body adjusted to the over-a-meter growth spurt and general realignment of his senses. He was grateful, at least, that ravens had binocular vision. Readjusting after being able to see behind him always gave him a migraine.

“Pleasant holiday?”

The ravens began chattering, talking over each other loudly in their efforts to share the various things they had seen and heard over their travels. When Odin had chosen a pair as his messengers, he’d been on to something; the sheer amount of information a few motivated ravens could retrieve was nothing short of astonishing.

One raven, however, was uncharacteristically staying a bit back from the rest of the conspiracy.

After a few minutes, Sherlock was concerned enough to interrupt the others. “What is it, Gwyllum? You haven’t taken your eyes off me since you’ve landed. Is there something the matter?”

The other ravens were silent. Gwyllum walked forward, eyes not straying from Sherlock. If he wasn’t talking, it must be because he was carrying something in his beak he couldn’t afford to drop. Something important.

Sherlock crouched down, the position very uncomfortable to a body still strained by the recent transformations. He offered his hand to the bird much as he’d done a week ago. Gwyllum leaned forward and very, very carefully dropped a few strands of short, brownish blond hair into the palm of Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

Sherlock pulled a plastic bag out of his coat pocket and quickly deposited the hairs inside before they could be blown away. He peered at them through the clear plastic, his optic nerves still apparently realigning.

“Caucasian, short cut means most likely male, sun bleaching suggests time spent abroad, but the darker roots and the fact that you haven’t flown that far in a week means recently returned to the UK. I can test for drugs and isotopes at Bart’s…” or he could cheat a bit. It wasn’t really cheating if it wasn’t for a police case, was it? Sherlock held the bag carefully open with his left hand while his right rubbed a hair between his fingers and tried to get an impression of the owner.

Nothing.

Must still be a bit off from the transformation.

He shook his head back and forth, took a deep breath, and concentrated on the hair.

Still nothing.

He held the hair up between his eyes and glared at it.

Still. Nothing.

Usually by now he should have had a mental image of the person _likely male_ in question and a very good idea of where they were and what they were doing. Damn it, with the level of concentration he was putting into it, by now he should have known what the owner was feeling and had had for breakfast.

 _Nothing._ It was like hitting his head against a solid black wall.

“Gwyllum, what… _who_ is this?”

Gwyllum laughed.

Sherlock pulled his hand from the bag, careful not to take any of the hairs with him. He sealed it and shoved the plastic in his left pocket, where it wouldn’t have any contact with his mobile.

“I refuse to be laughed at by an overgrown jackdaw,” he said huffily.

Gwyllum stared at him, head cocked consideringly, and Sherlock stared back, until finally he couldn’t hold the stern expression any longer and allowed his mouth to quirk up into a grin at one corner.

“Alright, alright, yes, it’s absolutely lovely, thank you,” he admitted, in a tone open and friendlier than NSY would have imagined him capable of using. And would probably have found deeply disturbing if they had seen him using it.

The ravens, however, were old friends, and moreover, they’d brought him something more valuable than information and more interesting than drugs.

The ravens had brought him a _mystery._


	6. Chapter 6

  
_“That ‘Camelot’ may stem from ‘Camelondum’ has also been proposed. This is more alluring, particularly since the first six letters are the same, suggesting the very real possibility that Camelot is the Briton form of the Roman name.”  
-The Historic King Arthur by Frank D. Reno_   


 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called out, pounding on the thin door of the flat. “Sherlock, open the door.”

After ninety seconds of pounding, the door finally swung open. “Lestrade.”

Lestrade pushed past Sherlock to enter the tiny flat before turning back to face him. To the casual observer, Sherlock would have seemed as put-together and polished as ever, but Lestrade had worked with him long enough to notice the tiny signs of another of the consulting detective’s self-inflicted endurance marathons.

“You’re not answering your mobile. And how long has it been since you’ve eaten? Or slept?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Boring, three days, five days.”

The flat looked like the lovechild of a flea market and Frankenstein’s laboratory, and Lestrade wondered, not for the first time, how it was that a man who wore bespoke suits as though he’d been born in them and whose accent bore clear traces of Oxbridge had apparently chosen to dwell in such a hovel.

“Yeah, well, we need your statement to close the Redding case.” Lestrade could tell another ‘boring’ was coming his way and decided to forestall it. “And yes, I know, such things are beneath you but _I_ still need them to do my job so could you just do me a favour and come down to the station tomorrow?”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully and Lestrade glared back, thankful that the past year and a half of dealing with the man had rendered him generally immune to fidgeting under the piercing gaze, provided the gaze lasted less than thirty seconds. He wondered how many years it would take before he could stand it indefinitely, and then internally shuddered at the thought of his future at the Met, stretching out before him and filled with dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

“Don’t worry, Detective Inspector, there’s always early retirement.”

“How did… Forget it. Don’t care. The station, tomorrow, yeah?” Lestrade tried to keep the pleading in his tone to a minimum, but the Commissioner had been breathing down his neck for the past few days.

“Your hair.”

Lestrade ran a hand through it self consciously. It could probably do with a trim. “It was grey before I met you.”

Mostly.

Sherlock smiled as though he’d just told a joke. “If you give me a sample of your hair, Lestrade, I will happily arrive at the station tomorrow at, let us say, half past nine?”

“Fine.” Lestrade said. “But.” and then raised his hand to forestall anything Sherlock might be about to say, “We’re going to go out and get dinner first, and you _are_ going to eat something. And if you’ll do me the very great favour...” he didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of his voice, “of getting some sleep tonight, I will consider letting you in on the very _strange_ death we’ve just come across.”

“Strange?”

“Scalped.”

 _“Really?”_ Sherlock asked, not bothering to hide his interest now.

“Scout’s honour.”

“You were never in the… fine, three hours.”

“Eight.”

“ _Four.”_

 _“Including_ the beard.”

“Fine, six.”

“ _Beard,_ Sherlock.”

“Alright, alright. Seven.”

“Done,” Lestrade agreed, knowing it was the best he was likely to get. “Indian? I could murder a vindaloo.”

“Acceptable,” Sherlock said, sweeping past him in that bloody great coat of his. “I know a place nearby, the Taj Mahal, the Dharmalingams would be happy to feed us. I did their son a favour.”

As usual, negotiating with Sherlock reminded him of dealing with his six year old son, only with more forensics. Danny, thankfully, was likely to grow out of it.

He wasn’t sure Sherlock ever would.

Maybe over dinner he could try asking Sherlock more questions about his past. It wasn’t usually Lestrade’s practice to pry, especially given how closemouthed Sherlock had proven so far, but he couldn’t help but be curious about what sort of conditions, exactly, could have produced someone as brilliant and, well, _odd_ as Sherlock. Or why, when he could have done _anything,_ he’d chosen to spend his time as, effectively, a volunteer crime solver for the Met.

He suspected if he could ever get Sherlock to tell it, it would be one hell of a story.

 

***

 

"So... the dark haired woman behind the desk said, "have you given any further thought to what you'll be doing after your discharge next week?" She glanced at his file.  "I see you have family in..."

"London," John interjected.

"You've family in London?" She looked again at the file, and he wished, not for the first time, that she was more willing to meet his eyes when she spoke to him.

"No.  I'll be... I'll be moving to London."

"Are you sure?" she asked, a note of surprise in her voice.  "Most returning soldiers benefit from the support of their families and loved ones during their readjustment to civilian life."

The last line was recited with the ease of practice and all the emotion of a four-colour trifold brochure.

John smiled a thin, tight smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes.  "I'm sure."

"You'll be receiving a disabilities pension, of course, but London's an expensive place to live..."

"I'll manage," he said firmly.

"Well, if you're sure…” she offered, still doubtful, ”we can arrange a bedsit for you, at least temporarily..."

"Fine, yes.  That will be fine."

“We’ll arrange a therapist for you there as well, Dr. Thompson is very good.”

“Of course. Yes. Right.”

Later, as he packed his few possessions into his rucksack, he reflected on his decision to go to London. He doubted he could have explained it to anyone, it didn’t even make that much sense to him, really. But London called to him. It was the heart of England, after all, surely if there was something, anything, for him to do now, he’d find it there.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to go.


	7. Chapter 7

  


_“On second thought, let’s not go to Camelot, it is a silly place.”  
-Monty Python and the Holy Grail_  


 

***

 

 

“Johnny!”

From across the coffee shop, John winced as Harry’s piercing voice filled the small space, causing other patrons to turn and stare at her entrance. She’d always seemed to take up more space than her five foot two frame would have suggested.

He’d planned this meeting like a military campaign: early enough she shouldn’t be drinking, in a coffee shop in an area neither frequented so there would be no familiar faces, no alcohol so she wouldn’t be tempted, only light snacks available so they wouldn’t have to stay long, not so close to mealtime that she could reasonably suggest heading to a restaurant afterwards, and no pubs in the area so she couldn’t suggest that either...

Of course, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.

“Johnny boy!” Harriet declared as she arrived in front of his corner table. John worked his face into a smile and stood up.

“Harry,” he gasped as she pulled him into a surprisingly crushing hug that did his injured shoulder no favours. “Good to see you.” He wrapped his arms around her a good deal more gingerly.

“And you!” she said, grabbing his shoulders to push him backward, holding him at arm’s length and looking him up and down the way their mother had done when they were children. “Look at you, aged ten years at least. Anyone would think you were the older sibling now.”

John decided that, in the interest of making it at least a quarter of an hour before the inevitable argument broke out, he would forbear mentioning that it has been years since they had last seen each other, that anyone who watched them interact for more than thirty seconds would be able to tell she was the elder of them, and that the signs of alcohol abuse that any medical professional could read on her face were doing her no particular favours.

“You’re looking… very professional.” She was, too, wearing a suit and carrying a purse that looked designer to John’s admittedly untutored eyes. “Very successful.” Her hair, artificially blonder than his, was pulled up in some sort of chignon twisty thing, and the few pieces of jewelry she wore were understated but looked... nice.

She waved his compliment away cheerfully, though he could tell she was pleased by the acknowledgement. Especially as it carried the unspoken comparison with his own current status.

“Oh, Johnny, the coffee’s gone cold,” Harry said, “and yours is empty. I’ll get us both more.” Before John could respond in a way that would certainly not have involved the phrases ‘you’re’ and ‘over twenty minutes late’ she’d added “No, no, I’ll pay for them both, I insist,” in way that managed to imply magnanimity on her part and Dickensian levels of poverty on his.

 _Pick your battles, Watson,_ he reminded himself as she made her way to the counter. They’d been best friends, growing up. He allowed himself a minute to stare at her back, tried to see the bright girl in the prickly woman she’d become.

“Two coffees,” she said, setting them both down before seating herself across from him. “Now tell me what you’re planning next, now you’re done playing soldier.”

“I wasn’t…” John stopped himself. “I’m still making plans.” There, that was safe. Probably. He took a sip of his drink to find it still too hot and definitely too sweet.

“Well, you’re still a doctor, aren’t you? I can cosign a loan, get you started with a nice practice somewhere…” she waved the hand holding the cup, and a few drops of coffee spilled onto the table. “...nice and quiet, maybe someplace in the countryside, don’t want you having any of those… PTSD attacks, are you having those?”

Which was, of course, the exact moment that all noise in the coffee shop seemed to simultaneously and arbitrarily subside. John felt a number of covert and obvious eyes on him, no doubt wondering if he was about to snap.

“I am not having PTSD attacks, Harry.” He knew better than to mention the nightmares or his obligatory therapy appointments. He added, in his most deliberately calm voice, “I’m fine.”

Harry seemed not to have heard him, though. “You always were a one for soldiering on, brother mine, even when you were young you’d never admit you’d been injured...“

And suddenly she’s gone quiet, has wandered too close to a topic neither of them would willingly have gone anywhere near.

Harry recovered first. “Remember rescuing that moggy?”

And suddenly they were back again on safe ground, the danger temporarily passed. “Yeah,” John said, and the smile came without effort this time. “Got a few scratches for my effort.”

“Scratches? I was sure you were going to fall and break your arm climbing that tree.”

“And then you went and claimed you’d rescued her,” he reminded her ruefully.

“Yeah, well, Amelia looked so impressed when she saw I’d rescued her Callie from the tree, and I had _such_ a crush on her at the time… you remember, John, she had such lovely ginger hair…”

“You don’t even _like_ cats.”

“Well, she didn’t know that! Thought I could get at least a kiss for my troubles.”

“ _My_ troubles.”

“Well, she didn’t know _that_ either.” Harry laughed, and John joined in. She looked years younger when she laughed.

“Worked, too,” she added conspiratorially. “That’s how I found out I was allergic.” She gave an exaggerated wink that had John giggling again.

“Reminds me, Johnny… I wanted to give you this before I forget…” Harry began rummaging through her handbag with an exaggerated concentration that suggested it was much bigger on the inside. “Here!” She said, pulling out a fancy looking mobile. “Now you’re back you need one.”

“Harry, this looks expensive,” John said warily. It also appeared to have at least eight times as many buttons as it could possibly need and looked more likely to have completed medical school than he currently did. “I can’t possibly...”

“Of course you can. Work’s just bought me a new one anyhow, this is last year’s model.”

“Harry, I…” John turned the phone over and stopped as he saw there was an inscription. From Clara. “I can’t. Really, really can’t.”

“John. Please.” Harry caught his eyes. “I want you to have it. I don’t have a use for it anymore, and you never spend money on yourself. I want to have a way to contact you besides email.” She put her hand over the phone, covering the writing, and pushed it across the table towards him.

He covered her hand with his own. He could take Harry’s anger, but he’d always been rubbish at dealing with her pain. “Fine.”

***

London breathes.

Rivers flow like veins, roadways like nerves. It is an exquisite corpse, a Frankenstein’s creation of a city born of a thousand successful and failed experiments, a million births, a billion deaths. It grafts newcomers to its trunk and then claims their fruit as its own.

London wears its past like scar tissue, bleeds in new growth. Speaks now in neon and loudspeakers and concrete alongside brick and stone. Is tattooed with monuments, adorned with gardens.

London is Londinium is the City is Eternal. It is paved in the coronations of kings and the funerals of paupers. Its church bells chime a heartbeat, as constant as Greenwich’s pips.

London dreams. London remembers. And London waits.

*** 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, there was this thing *cough*Reichenbach*cough*… hey, look, a longer chapter.
> 
> Sincere thanks to analineblue for her invaluable assistance with plot and to LaReineNoire and themegaloo for their noble efforts beta reading. Any remaining mistakes, inaccuracies, or problems are my own fault.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave comments or kudos on Here Be Dragons. I really appreciate your feedback.

_“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.”  
― T.H. White, The Once and Future King_

***

John had taken to what his granddad would have called ‘constitutionals,’ his therapist ‘walks,’ but which he personally thought of as ‘if I have to stare at the walls of my ruddy bedsit for one more sodding minute I am going to do something unbefitting a former member of Her Majesty’s Medical Corps.’ 

Tonight, on a whim, he’d begun on a path heading the opposite way from most of his usual routes. 

An hour of walking in no particular direction found him in an unfamiliar neighborhood with an aching leg and a strong desire to find the nearest Tube stop.

He’d just about decided to turn around and try retracing his steps when he heard sounds of some sort of scuffle nearby.

John reacted without conscious thought, running towards the noise with his cane in his left hand like a weapon. 

Three men… they looked not much older than teenagers, really, were kicking at a man curled up on the ground. 

“Alright, stop that!” John bellowed. 

They did stop for a minute, turning to look at John and his cane. The tallest, a rail thin boy wearing an orange knit cap, snorted. “Whatever, gramps, just having a bit of fun here.”

His companion with a shaved head turned back to the victim, “yeah, leave off, it’s none of your business is it? Unless you’d like us to have a go at you too.”

“He’s a bloody cripple, probably only take one hit,” said the third, who looked as though he’d decided a standing target was likely to be more interesting than one already on the ground. He advanced on John, a piece of board held in front of him. “Come on, then, stop us.”

He moved to swing the board at John.

Everything after that happened a bit fast.

It turned out that a cane sturdy enough to support the weight of a full-grown man was also sturdy enough to do damage when wielded offensively.

It also transpired that a trained ex-soldier, even one recovering from various wounds, was more than a match for three idiots with more bollocks than brains.

Ten minutes later, John found himself standing alone in the alley, bruised, panting heavily, and feeling more alive than he’d felt in ages.

“You alright, mate?” he asked solicitously, dropping to his knees to look over the attack victim. From the state of his clothing and his general appearance, John guessed the man was homeless, or at least what John’s mother would have euphemistically referred to as ‘down on his luck.’ The phrase now seemed uncannily apt, considering. “Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.”

“Fuck, mate, I’d have guessed commando or summat.” The man accepted a hand from John, pulling himself off the ground. “I’ve had worse.”

“You ought to get checked out, might have concussion, cracked ribs, some sort of swelling around your neck…” John fought the urge to physically examine him for injuries. “I’ll call for an ambulance.” 

The man waved away John’s arm and his concern. “No ambulance, an’ no police… I’ll be fine. Right as rain in the morning.” It was hard to get a good look at him in the dim light, but John could see enough to make him highly skeptical of the man’s claim. 

“Aren’t you going to at least report them?” asked John, frustrated.

“Met ain’t all that concerned wit’ the likes of me, Doc. An’ after the fright you gave those bastards I doubt they’ll be after anyone else anytime soon.”

He patted John on the back, then began slowly ambling away. “Thanks for the help, doc. Best be gettin’ home. Cheers!”

John stared after the man, feeling more than a little useless, until he’d turned a corner and was out of sight.

He sighed, turned around, and began trying to retrace his steps back to his flat. Nothing looked familiar, so he finally gave in and limped into a convenience store.

“Erm… could you tell me the way to the nearest Tube stop?” he asked, feeling like a bloody tourist.

“No worries, love, it’s just a couple of blocks that way,” she said, gesturing to his left.

John nodded, feeling half embarrassed and half relieved that it was so close. 

He reached into his pocket to buy a packet of crisps as a thank you and found an empty space where his wallet should have been.

Bloody hell. It was _really_ not his night.

***

“Anderson, there’s something different about you today.”

“Sherlock, don’t start.”

Sherlock went on as if he hadn’t heard Lestrade. “You’ve shaved off that atrocious bit of pubic hair you had growing on your chin! Well done, you’re looking at least eleven point one five percent less stupid! Of course you’re still working from a negative, but it _is_ a step in the right direction.”

“Oh fuck off, Holmes.”

“Of course, if you were better at forensics you might perhaps have _caught_ the killer by now instead of devoting your energy to making sure you’re not his next victim…”

“You…” Anderson suddenly lunged at Sherlock, who effortlessly sidestepped out of the way. It looked more like a scene from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon than anything Lestrade wanted to see at his crime scene.

“STOP IT, NOW. Both of you.” Lestrade glared at them both until he was sure neither was about to do something idiotic. Well, more idiotic, anyway. He wondered, not for the first time, what he’d done in a past life to deserve this.

“Sherlock, I will have you off this scene if you can’t leave off the insults to my personnel, and Anderson, if you can’t handle a rude comment from the public you’ve no business in the force. And don’t think I didn’t hear you egging him on earlier, Christ, are you both five years old?”

Both looked about to say something. 

“I mean it. Now get back to work. Anderson, secure the body for transport. Sherlock, come with me.”

He turned around and strode to the perimeter of the crime scene, where they’d be less likely to be overheard. 

“Dammit, Sherlock, I need you to leave off my people. If nothing else, if any of them complains to the rubber heelers you’re going to be banned from this… all of this” he gestured expansively around them, “fast enough to make your head spin and I will not be able to do a bloody _thing_ about it.”

Hopefully the threat of banishment would succeed, because god knew common courtesy hadn’t a chance. He continued, the anger in his voice replaced with frustration. “Three bodies, now, so please tell me you’ve got something we can use.”

Sherlock began to tick off data points on his black-gloved fingers. “The victims were a chef, an MP, and the CEO of an internet startup that has recently gone public. All were rich, moderately well-known and successful in their chosen fields… which means Anderson would have been safe anyway.” 

“Sherlock…” 

“Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock said, already dismissing Anderson from his thoughts. “While historically facial hair has gone in and out of fashion, currently it is less common, especially among what is generally termed the ‘middle‘ and ‘upper’ classes. The fact that the killer has taken so much time to carefully remove their beards as well as their scalp suggests it is as important to him…”

“Him?”

“Statistically, yes, much more likely to be a him. Of course, it also takes a not insignificant amount of strength to move the bodies, again, making it likely the killer is male. He’ll have experience hunting, likely grew up or spent time in the countryside, not many people have the kind of experience he’s demonstrated at skinning.”

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair as he struggled to keep up with the rapid fire monologue. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”

Sherlock gave him one of his ‘why is everyone around me so stupid’ looks, though Lestrade knew the version reserved for him was a bit milder than the one most people received. “Borrowed a head from the morgue, do keep up.”

“When you say ‘borrowed’…” 

Sherlock waved his hands dismissively. “I gave it back when I was done.” He clasped both hands together and brought them to his face in a pose that might have looked prayerful on anyone else. “Now, the taxidermy is very suggestive…” 

“Taxidermy?”

Sherlock paused in his pacing to glance over at the DI. “What did you think he was _doing_ with the beards, Lestrade?”

_“Christ.”_

And that, there, was why he would keep working with Sherlock. Because no matter how much of a right bastard he could be, on the truly odd cases like this he was often the difference between lives lost and saved. As far as Greg was concerned, that meant he was on the side of the angels.

Though it sure as hell didn’t make him any easier to work with.

Lestrade took a deep breath and tried really, really hard not to think too heavily about the actual implications of what Sherlock was telling him. He was a hardened copper, yeah, but some things were _supposed_ to still mess with your head, at least, if you weren’t a sociopathic genius. “Alright, what else can you give me?”

“Like most serial killers, he’s secretly looking for recognition, due to…” Sherlock froze, eyes staring ahead blankly. He looked almost corpse white, as though he’d somehow passed out standing straight up. 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “Are you…” and then he heard it too. A low noise with a deep resonant thrum, like a strange cross between a heartbeat and a church bell, filling his ears. It grew louder, taking up residence in his chest cavity and expanding until his own heart was forced to beat in awkward synchronization with it. 

He couldn’t move, could barely breathe, could only stand frozen wondering what the hell was holding them there like a drumbeat by the Pied Piper. Gradually, though, he became aware of an easing off, the noise beginning to fade away until it was… finally… entirely… 

...gone.

His body sagged as he regained autonomy, leaving him catching his breath like he’d been chasing criminals on foot before he’d quit smoking. Greg glanced around at his team, but apparently only he and Sherlock had been affected. Hell, if Sherlock hadn’t obviously been affected as well, and first, he’d have wondered if he’d just suffered a heart attack like his old man.

Sherlock, who stood quietly in front of him, facial colour returned to its usual pale shade. His eyes, though... if he’d been a more fanciful man, Lestrade would have said they were glowing. Fucking hell, now he was seeing things too.

“Sherlock, what…” he asked, “the _hell_ was that?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised you heard it too.” Sherlock was practically purring, his lips curled up at the corners and overall looking far too damn pleased for someone who’d just experienced some sort of group panic attack. 

“I swear to God if you don’t tell me what the hell just happened…” the panic was fading, leaving anger in its place.

“I’ll explain later. Must run. Text once you’ve got the forensics report. Ta!“ Sherlock spun on his heel and began striding away from the crime scene as fast as his ridiculously long legs could carry him.

“Sherlock… what’s going on? Sherlock!” Christ. 

A moment or two later, he felt his mobile vibrate.

_Meeting up with an old friend. SH_


	9. Chapter 9

_Jack Cade:  
Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting   
upon London-stone, I charge and command that, of the   
city's cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but  
claret wine this first year of our reign. And now   
henceforward it shall be treason for any that calls   
me other than Lord Mortimer.  
\- William Shakespeare; History of Henry VI, Part II, Act 4, Scene 6_

 

***

John had duly reported his lost wallet (military ID, £22 in cash, bank card, Oyster card, various receipts and bits of paper) to the military, then the bank, then the police. It was possible, he supposed, that it had just fallen out during the fight and that someone would return it. Possible, but unlikely. 

He wasn’t by nature a cynical person, but it was hard not to feel a bit ‘no good deed goes unpunished’ about the whole thing. Then again, the same could be said about his military service, so he just stopped that entire train of thought and reminded himself that he hadn’t lost anything of real value, given the option he wouldn’t have done anything differently, and it was all fine. It even gave him something to mention to his therapist that week, though he very carefully didn’t mention anything about the fight he’d got into beforehand. Unfortunately, John had a feeling Dr. Thompson (Please, John, call me Ella) knew he’d left parts out of his story; she’d given him the disapproving look he was getting used to receiving from her and had scribbled something in her notepad.

John kept taking walks, though. It was still the only form of entertainment he could really afford, and even he knew that sitting around in his dreary little bedsit with only an illegal firearm for company was likely to have a bad end.

Today he’d got as far as the edge of the City. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would visit the British Museum-- he hadn’t been there in twenty years. They had a room full of mummies that had alternately terrified and fascinated him as a kid, one of them looking as though he’d been screaming when they wrapped him up.

He wondered how much the museum was likely to have changed and how often they dusted the mummies (and how _did_ one dust mummies) when he once again heard a commotion nearby. Proving that contrary to his primary school reports, he was indeed a slow learner, John was once again off like a shot to see what the fuss was about.

A small crowd of people had gathered around a businessman collapsed on the pavement, though unlike the last time they seemed composed of gawkers and concerned citizens. A woman kneeling next to the man was ineffectually trying to do… something to help him, but didn’t seem to have any idea of what that should be, beyond unbuttoning his coat and waving her arms about.

“I can’t tell if he’s breathing!” she practically yelled into her mobile.

As though a switch had gone off in his head, John suddenly felt completely at ease.

“Out of the way,” he barked at some of the onlookers directly in front of him. “I’m a doctor.”

He made his way over quickly, then knelt down next to the man to check his pulse and pupils.

“Henry just collapsed. Just… fell over.”

“That the ambulance service?” he asked the woman. She nodded.

“You stay on the line with them, alright?” he consciously gentled his tone. “Make sure they know where to come.”

Everything around him faded into blurry insignificance as he turned his attention to his patient and began administering CPR. External sounds became muted as _Stayin’ Alive_ played loudly in his head, providing the necessary rhythm for the chest compressions.

He stayed that way, in a strange bubble of _calm/adrenaline push/breathe quiet/pulse_ until the paramedics arrived to load the man and his wife into the ambulance. 

John very carefully stood up again, bracing himself with his cane and waving away the one or two people who offered assistance. As the crowd dispersed and the adrenaline faded, he found himself almost angry at the various sincere and awkward compliments he’d received from the departing bystanders. He hadn’t done anything that bloody special-- anyone could give CPR. There had probably been at least a few people in the crowd who’d been trained to at one point or another, who’d been too scared to try.

He could feel his leg about to give out from the unexpected exertion, and made his way to the nearest vertical surface. John fished his mobile out of his pocket, hoping he could at least look as though he was nonchalantly leaning against the wall and texting instead of trying rather hard not to collapse.

He tried to open it one handed, but it slipped instead, making an unpleasant noise as it hit the pavement. John winced, hoping he hadn’t broken the stupid thing. He could hardly let it lie there, but bending down again to get it filled him with dread.

Sod it. He bent down slowly at the knees, feeling like an old man, picked up the mobile and shoved it in his pocket. He reached his right hand out, grabbing onto an ornamental grate in the wall for support as he stood back up.

As his hand made contact with the grate, everything flashed white, then golden. 

He heard a thudding in his head, more regular than his heartbeat; a steady thump thump thump a bit like a metronome or a clock chiming the hour. It expanded, it filled his chest and kept growing, kept beating, until his whole body was at the mercy of the strange sensation in an odd parody of the cardio-pulmonary respiration he’d just performed on someone else.

If he could think, he’d think he was having a heart attack.

If he could think.

There were flashes that might have almost been images if they’d stayed put long enough for his brain to make sense of them. (Later, thinking on it, one of them _might_ possibly have resembled Stonehenge just a bit. Inasmuch as a blurry group of greyish-greenish blobs could be said to resemble anything.)

Then, abruptly, everything normalized again, and he was just a middle-aged ex-soldier with a limp and an empty blog, leaning against a brick wall next to a sports shop in Cannon Street.

Christ, he really _was_ in bad shape, if he was having heart palpitations and vision issues.

Oddly, though, he felt better than he had in ages. His head felt clear, the aches in his body had vanished, and he felt as though he had energy enough to walk to Wales and back.

He would definitely not be mentioning any of this to Dr. Thompson at their next session.

***

Yeoman Warder Randall Walters was leading his third tour of the day, and was thus allowing his mind to wander freely about while, to all intents and purposes, his body was fully involved in regaling a crowd of tourists with a degree of overacting straight out of Victorian melodrama.

“...Legend has it that if the ravens were to leave the Tower, the Tower and England itself Would. Then. Fall. So by the royal decree of King Charles the Second, six ravens are to be kept at the Tower at all times, their wing feathers clipped, Ladies and Gentlemen, to prevent them…”

As if in response to an unseen cue, the ravens suddenly began croaking, a simultaneous initial hoarse cry that then split into a cacophony of voices as each bird tried to make itself heard above the others. Ignoring the visitors and the Beefeater, they moved into a rough circle on the green, continuing to hold an animated discussion amongst themselves.

Deciding that there was no immediate danger to either his tour group or the ravens, and thus, this was the Ravenmaster’s problem, not his, Yeoman Warder Walters mentally forwarded past the rest of the raven-related section of his speech and turned back to his tour group. 

“We’ll now head over to Tower Green, where a number of illustrious personages who fell afoul of the Crown experienced an untimely end on the chopping block.”

***

Once Sherlock made his way past the last of the crime scene tape, he was unsurprised to discover a black car waiting at the kerb directly in front of him. 

He opened the door and all but flung himself onto the seat opposite Mycroft.

“Bedivere felt it too. Though of course he’s no idea what it means.”

Mycroft looked smug. More smug than usual. The smug git. “Of course.”

“The Tower? Westminster Abbey? _Where,_ Mycroft?”

“The London Stone is the most likely.”

“The… of _course._ Tell me for once your bloody surveillance cameras have come in handy.”

“Despite what you and Banksy may believe, the CCTV system is hardly omnipresent. And for some reason, an almost forgotten historical curiousity was not deemed a priority when the cameras were put in place.”

Sherlock snorted. “All this time, you secretly running the country, and you’ve managed to _miss_ him?”

“We both know you’d have been rather disappointed if I’d found him for you.”

Sherlock remained silent, which they both knew was its own kind of answer.

Mycroft continued. “I have, however, taken the liberty of having the footage reviewed for any other personages who may have reacted to the Knell.”

Sherlock turned to stare out the window. Intellectually, he knew that finding more knights and historical whatnots was important, but compared to finding his… his _Arthur,_ he really couldn’t bring himself to care. They were just means to an end.

“You do realise that If Lestrade is still in ignorance of his former identity, it is quite likely that Arthur himself remembers nothing of his past, even now.”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “I’m not an idiot, Mycroft, I have accounted for that possibility.” 

Mycroft tilted his head and looked up at Sherlock, a steady gaze that managed to convey doubt, skepticism, concern, and what Sherlock resolutely refused to interpret as fondness.

“One further thing to consider, Sherlock… if _we_ know he’s back,” Mycroft paused so briefly that anyone other than Sherlock would have missed it, “others may as well. Things are waking up, and not all of them are our allies.”

The car finally rolled to a stop, and Sherlock bolted out onto Cannon Street before he could be forced to endure one more second of lecturing.

“Sherlock, please don’t slam the…”

Sherlock slammed the car door shut behind him.

Arthur was back. The game was on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I feel I should mention this, because it’s come up a few times in comments: This story is not a Sherlock/(BBC)Merlin crossover, it is a Sherlock-based Arthurian Legend AU, and is thus likely to disappoint any readers looking for (BBC)Merlin-based characterizations. In terms of Arthurian sources, John is probably closer to T. H. White’s Arthur and Sherlock to Sir Thomas Malory’s Merlin than anyone else, but the characterizations are primarily based directly on Sherlock and my own weird headcanon.
> 
> As always, love to my illustrious betas and beta/britpicker: lareinenoire, themegaloo, and rosamond.
> 
> Learn CPR, kids. You could save a life.
> 
> (And yes, they do actually teach you to time the compressions to the beat of _Stayin’ Alive._ )


	10. Chapter 10

_Professor Yana: Oh, every human knows of Utopia. Where have you been?  
The Doctor: Bit of a Hermit.  
Prof. Yana: A-a hermit ...with, uh, friends?”   
The Doctor: Hermits United. We meet up every 10 years, swap stories about caves. It's good fun. For a Hermit._

_\- Doctor Who 3.11 “Utopia”_

 

***

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He blamed Mycroft.

Of course, it wasn’t actually Mycroft’s fault, but blaming anything Sherlock wasn’t happy with on on Mycroft’s meddlings, or alternately Mycroft’s lack of meddlings, was a time-honoured technique with the benefit of a great deal of tradition behind it.

He’d been spoiled by crime scenes, because even ones where half of Scotland Yard had apparently trampled through weren’t as bad as trying to get a bearing on a reasonably busy street in the middle of the day. Any evidence had likely been obliterated within minutes.

Not that there was much to be evidence of, just someone being too near a wall. There’d clearly been some sort of commotion here recently, but it might or might not have had anything to do with the Stone or the Knell.

The pigeons were no help, they rarely paid attention to human things. If Arthur had dropped a quantity of birdseed they’d have taken note. But only of the seed, and not of the man dropping it.

He’d almost given up on finding anything at all useful when he spotted a member of his Network sitting against a wall. Ha. Mycroft could have his cameras, he’d prefer people any day. And if a few members of his Network weren’t quite human, that was their business. He would keep London’s secrets, provided it didn’t try to keep any from him.

His Network was an odd group of addicts, the mentally ill, the down on their luck, the criminal, the not-quite human, and the ones who were some combination of some or all of the above, and he certainly didn’t trust them with matters of personal hygiene, but they knew the city up and down (and down, and down). You didn’t survive long on the streets by being an idiot, which gave Sherlock a slightly higher opinion of their average intelligence than he had of most of London’s ‘official’ population.

Sherlock walked over at a deliberately casual pace, eyes roving as though he were actually interested in any of the tawdry posters or commercial properties around him. 

“Spare change, sir?”

Sherlock dropped two twenties in the cup in front of him. “Has anything of note occurred here, in, say, the last half hour?”

“Man had some sort of fit, whole crowd of people gathered around while his wife had hysterics, probably taping it on their phones, I dunno. ‘nother man stepped in and saved him, then the ambulance arrived.”

“Anything else?”

Laine shrugged, a motion almost invisible through the multitude of clothing layers she wore. “That’s it. Oh, Nate wants a word.”

“Do you know why?”

Sherlock had, of course, put out the word through the Network that anything odd or out of the ordinary was to be brought to his attention immediately. The initial request had led to a more than a bit of discussion revolving around clarifying “out of the ordinary” for a group of people who regularly witnessed all that London’s ancient underbelly had to offer, but they’d eventually worked out a usable definition consisting mostly of “if you think it odd enough to warrant alerting me, it is indeed likely odd enough to warrant alerting me.”

“Didn’t ask.”

Sherlock dropped another twenty in the cup.

“He’s usually hanging about Christchurch Greyfriars Gardens,” she added. 

Sherlock gave a curt nod in acknowledgement before striding away. He had to _think._ The city was awake now, and it had recognised Arthur. It wasn’t sentient in the way most people thought of such things, but it was aware. And it would want them to find each other. Would likely find ways to keep pushing them towards each other until they did finally click.

Well, if he wasn’t going to give Mycroft the satisfaction, he certainly wasn’t going to give some geography with an overdeveloped sense of importance the satisfaction either. He was going to find Arthur first.

Destiny, he knew from experience, was infinitely more satisfying when you made it yourself. 

Cabs, however, benefitted from a bit of help, and so Sherlock was very quickly speeding towards Greyfriars.

He stood for a moment, staring at the ruins and mentally rebuilding the church as it had been over the dull dentist’s office now occupying the space. Sherlock wasn’t generally given to sentiment, nor was he especially fond of churches, but… the thought of seeing Arthur again must have been making him a bit feely.

He felt, rather than saw, someone approaching him from behind.  
“Nate.”

“Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock turned around slowly. “Why did you want to see me?” 

“I stole this wallet, see…”

“I specifically requested ‘out of the ordinary,’ “ Sherlock interrupted, annoyed, “and that is neither noteworthy nor remotely surprising.”

“Hey, lemme finish, you ruddy toff. Y’see, bit back I was knocked about by some kids, only a man came out of nowhere, like, an’ put paid to them. But then he says he’s a doctor, tries to fix me up as well.”

“And you pinched his wallet.” Sherlock did not consider himself an expert on human morality, but he was reasonably certain this was not the traditional response to potentially lifesaving aid.

“Yeah, well… clearly a man of charity, wasn’t he?” Nate said, unperturbed.

“More than he knew, apparently,” Sherlock agreed dryly. “So what’s this got to do with me?”

“Need you to find him an’ give him his wallet back.”

“A few bob lighter, no doubt.”

“Man’s got to eat.”

“Why the sudden, dare I say, crisis of conscience?” Nate could have sold the IDs and bank card, or just thrown them out in a way that would ensure either their recovery or their permanent loss. All of which did not necessitate the involvement of Sherlock Holmes. 

“Yeah, well…” For the first time in the conversation, Nate looked uncomfortable. His eyes darted around them before he pulled his collars back to reveal a rather filthy but otherwise unremarkable neck. “I had this swelling. On m’ neck. An’ it’s gone. An’ I wasn’t drunk, at least not before, an’ I think I’d know my own ruddy neck an’ I don’t know how but he healed it.” He took a breath. “Look, my own nan wouldn’t mistake me for a saint, but this is bigger ‘n me, and she taught me not to mess with that sort…. Fuck, he’s not just a good Samaritan, he’s a guardian angel or some shite and I stole his fuckin’ wallet. So if you could just please get it back to him all quiet like…”

Sherlock stared at him, features carefully blank. He’d do it, of course, he would, this was potentially _interesting,_ but Nate hardly needed to know that just yet.

“Hey, I’m practically doin’ _you_ a favour here, mystery for you…”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Fine, I’ll owe you a favour, just… take it! Here,” he said, shoving a slim brown leather wallet at the detective, before turning and ambling off, grumbling to himself.

Sherlock waited until Nate was out of sight before he began examining the wallet’s contents.

There was nothing particularly odd or interesting in the stolen wallet of Captain John H Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Living in London on reduced means, likely no longer in the service. Strong moral code, if he was willing to risk himself to save a stranger from a beating. No sign of his London address, but he’d have reported the theft to the police, and it would be easy enough for Sherlock to...

...in the bottom right corner, trapped in the seam between the leather and the clear plastic displaying the man’s military ID, was a short brownish-blond hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closer and closer…
> 
> I’ll be at Dragon*Con in a few weeks, where I’ll be dressed as (among other things) River Song, Bruce Banner, Poison Ivy, and of course, Doctor John H Watson. My badge says Winter, feel free to say hello if you’re there!


	11. Chapter 11

_“Yet every line, and every station, has its own particular identity. The Northern Line is intense and moody, while the Central Line is filled with purpose and energy. The Circle Line is adventurous and breezy, while the Bakerloo Line is disconsolate and brooding. The sorrows of Lancaster Gate are preceded by the liveliness of Notting Hill Gate, while the comfort of Sloane Square is followed by the brisk anonymity of Victoria.”  
-Peter Ackroyd’s London Under_

***

 _It might not be him,_ Sherlock reminded himself.

 _The hairs look identical,_ he argued back.

 _You won’t know until you get them under a microscope. And he may just be one of the knights, or something_ else _entirely. Who knows why the ravens do anything they do._

_He’s a soldier._

_As are countless others, and that’s without mentioning reserves, SAS, and anyone who reports to Mycroft. And for all you know ‘soldier’ may just mean some idiot who can only follow orders._

_He doesn’t look like an idiot. He looks… solid._

_He doesn’t look like Arthur either._

_I’m not an idiot, I knew he’d look different._

_Ah, but are you really prepared for him to _be_ different to the Arthur you knew?_

_...he’ll still be Arthur._

_Will he?_

_Yes, damn it, yes. Even if he doesn’t remember anything._

_You mean you._

_I mean anything. He’s still my… he’s still Arthur. Look at the evidence: soldier, served his country, captain, so he can’t have done too poorly at it. Sees a man being attacked and his first instinct is to throw himself into the fray. And he’s a doctor now, if Nate can be believed._

_Nate, who also claimed he was miraculously healed by an angel._

_Yes, yes, some boil on his neck vanishes and it’s… wait. The neck! **Tuberculous cervical lymphadenitis.**_

_A shot in the dark._

_But a good one._

_It still may not be him._

_I know that._

_You want it to be, though._

_More than anything._

***

John arrived just as the British Museum opened, which was good. Sadly, apparently every first-former in London had done so as well, which was less good. He’d meant to arrive a bit later, but the train had pulled up to the platform just as he’d got there, and for once there’d been no delays. Actually, it had been a bit strange; he could have sworn he needed to change lines to reach Russell Square.

The mere thought of being jostled about with his cane by hundreds of schoolchildren had threatened to set his leg to pre-emptive aching. He decided to wait it out a bit, give the opening crowds some time to disperse.

On the way here from the Tube he’d passed a small park. Could get coffee nearby… his leg twinged… maybe find a bench.

No. He was not a sodding grandpa, sitting on park benches and feeding breadcrumbs to the ducks. He’d walk to Regent’s Park. He’d walk _through_ Regent’s Park. And _then_ he’d walk back.

As he made his way through the roses not yet in bloom in Queen Mary’s garden, John stopped at a fountain with sculptures of sea creatures blowing water through their conch shells. On a whim, he reached into his pocket for change.

 _Nothing ever happens to me,_ he thought as he tossed a 50p coin into the water. _I’d like… I’d like to be useful again._

It’s only a trick of the light, but for a second it looked as though one of the mermaids had winked at him. Which was the closest thing to action he’d had since he got back, and god but he was getting maudlin.

He needed to update his CV, to start looking for work. If he got in touch with the PCT they could likely help him find some locum jobs, which would do something towards filling his now almost completely depleted bank account. 

It wasn’t quite so dire he couldn’t spare the coin he’d just thrown away, but it was getting to be a near thing.

John turned and began trudging back towards the museum.

***

It was the oddest thing, really. Beth had forgotten her BlackBerry, and she _never_ forgot her BlackBerry. He’d teased her often enough about having it surgically attached to her hand for her birthday.

Luckily he didn’t have anything scheduled for today until early afternoon, which meant that after seeing their youngest out the door safely, Mike Stamford had time to head over to her work and deliver his wife’s electronic brain so that she could continue to function.

And as it was a rather nice day for this time of year, and as he’d already done his good deed on this nice day, he felt no particular guilt about deciding that he needn’t be in any particular rush about getting himself back to Bart’s.

He sat down on a bench in Russell Square, ready to simply enjoy the sunshine, when he saw a familiar and completely unexpected face.  
“John! John Watson!” 

Mike Stamford had learned to listen to his feelings. They’d told him the cute blonde at the library might be interested in more than a study date, they’d told him not to take the Tube the day of the bombings, and they’d told him to call his father for an overdue heart-to-heart two days before the old man had passed in his sleep.

And now he’d run in to his old friend, clearly the worse for wear, and his feelings were telling him he and John needed to have a chat. 

“Before we catch up, John, let me buy you lunch. There’s a pub nearby, does a great pie, name of the White Hart…”

***

Under the microscope the hairs looked identical, but it was suggestive, not conclusive. The hair from the wallet lacked the root that would allow for DNA testing even if he’d been willing to use destructive testing methodologies, which Sherlock was still loathe to do.

Even with such information, there wasn’t an allele for “reincarnated king,” a lab test that could come up positive for “he’s the one you’ve been looking for for so many years.”

He could have gained access to the theft report Captain Watson had likely filed, it would have listed his address and mobile number, but he found himself strangely reluctant. It was _safe_ down here, in the lab he’d appropriated at Bart’s, running tests on inert biological samples. The waiting had been horrible but this, this _hope_ that had now gauged out a nest in his torso for the first time in centuries was almost worse. If this… _this_ turned out to be a false alarm… after Mycroft, after the Ravens, after the fucking _Knell_ … well. He couldn’t die or be killed, an immortality that had felt more like a curse than a blessing on more than one occasion. But he would find a way to go back to sleep, curl up in some bloody tree or cave and _stay there_ until Arthur was damn well back or until the inevitable heat-death of the universe, whichever came first.

***

John had meant to pay for his meal, despite Mike’s offers and protests, but he was a bit short on cash and of course his new bank card hadn’t come yet. This, of course, had led to an abbreviated telling of the circumstances leading to the loss of his wallet.

Mike listened thoughtfully, then said, “There’s someone you should meet. He consults for the police, solves crimes and puzzles, all sorts of things.”

John shook his head. “I’ve already filed a theft report. And he’s hardly going to be able to do much for a wallet that’s probably at the bottom of the Thames by now.”

“You’d be amazed at what I’ve seen him do, especially if something really interests him.”

“A wallet’s hardly likely to, though, surely?”

“Hard to say, he’s an odd one.” Mike shrugged. “Anyway, what have you got to lose?”

***

Sherlock had already flattered Molly into bringing him a coffee, then insulted her so she’d leave him alone. Girl reminded him of an Elaine, always fluttering around. The soothing quiet couldn’t last, though, and he prepared for yet another unwanted interruption as the sounds of two... men, one of them Dr. Mike Stamford, one unknown... could be heard heading towards his lab.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet...” Stamford toddled into the room, followed by a stocky suntanned man of average height, limping slightly, dark blond hair cropped short military style…and who, with allowances for the passage of time and illness, just happened to be a match to the ID photo of Captain John H Watson.

Was it _him_? Right here? All this time, all this… and he’d just walked in to Bart’s one day? It was… He had a limp. Why did he have a limp? He shouldn’t have had a limp… Unless he didn’t, actually, have a limp, but only thought he did. And if it was a choice between Sherlock being wrong about a deduction and someone being wrong about having a limp, it was far more likely they were incorrect about their body. He watched for another few seconds as the man stood still, apparently forgetting he had a limp. Sherlock one, limp zero.

”Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, and it wasn’t even _cheating,_ was it, because he didn’t know _that_ for sure. And it wasn’t what he wanted to say, it wasn’t near enough to what he wanted to say to see it on a clear day, but there weren’t words in English for the questions he really had, the ones attempting to claw their way out of his suddenly swollen throat.

The man… he wasn’t John Watson in Sherlock’s head but he wasn’t Arthur either, not yet, not without _proof_... glanced at Stamford, who shrugged as if to say, “yes, he does that, no, I didn’t tell him anything.”

Sherlock rattled off how he knew that, and then, for good measure, that he knew Stamford had brought him here because he’d recently lost his wallet, and alright that last bit was cheating, a little, but by that point the man’s eyes had widened to the point that it looked painful.

“That’s...that’s brilliant,” the man said.

...and time stopped.

Generally, this is understood to be a poetic metaphor describing an occasion in which a person’s brain is so overloaded by new information or emotion that it ceases to observe the passage of time. In Sherlock’s case, of course, it means he literally caused the passage of time to temporarily cease, but his mental state was roughly analogous.

Because the words were different...the accent was different... but the tone... the wonder, and the affection... and Sherlock turned, and really _looked_ at the man standing before him, and it was probably just as well he’d stopped time for everyone but himself, because people generally object to being stared at as though you’re burning a hole through them with your eyes (which, okay, yes, Sherlock could also have done, but was definitely not doing at the moment) or maybe planning to devour them whole (more Mycroft’s line than his, thank you very much) and his eyes were not the same shape or the same colour (bluer this time), but the _look_ in them said _I think you’re quite possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen_ which was ridiculous because _obviously_ it was the other way around.

Some tiny part of him realised he had now frozen everything for at least ten minutes of his subjective time and he’d probably better let things go back to normal before something unpleasant and quantum happened. But when reality reasserted itself he’d still want to keep staring at Arthur because he’s back, _he’s back,_ and if Sherlock were a normal person he might just have felt like he was about to explode, but since he wasn’t that’s actually a valid concern if he can’t keep himself under control, which he can’t at the moment, going to explode in a shower of sparks and wouldn’t that make a mess in the lab... 

Arthur’s phone had a tracer spell on it now, applied when he borrowed it to send an unnecessary text. He’d get a tracer spell on _him_ too, as soon as he could manage, but that would require physical contact and Sherlock doesn’t trust himself just yet. Thankfully, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t have to compel him to meet tomorrow at an address on Baker Street, curiosity (if nothing else) would make him come. And Sherlock could impress him with more deductions, with giving him his wallet back (almost like a magic trick!), show him a tenantless flat and convince him to leave wherever he was currently staying and they could move in together and Sherlock could keep him. Nearby. And just generally, really.

Then, perhaps, they could start dealing with this, once Sherlock had had a chance to remember how breathing worked.

Right now, though, he fled the lab, though centuries of practice meant the retreat looked elegant and exciting instead of cowardly. 

As soon as his back was to them, he began grinning, the smile lighting up his entire face in a way that would have terrified most of NSY. _John Watson... welcome back._

_My king._


	12. Chapter 12

__

The best bribe which London offers to-day to the imagination, is, that, in such a vast variety of people and conditions, one can believe there is room for persons of romantic character to exist, and that the poet, the mystic, and the hero may hope to confront their counterparts.  
\- “Culture” by Ralph Waldo Emerson

***

At the church of St John the Baptist in Glastonbury, the vicar wakes to find the Holy Thorn blooming.

***

Sherlock had at least sixty-three different things that needed to be done before he saw John again. _John John John John Arthur John Arthur John John…_ He experienced a thrill every time he so much as thought the name. He found it equal parts embarrassing, juvenile, and utterly delightful. He was never telling Mycroft.

Unfortunately, items one through thirty on his to-do list looked completely boring, so he skipped ahead a bit.

Sherlock turned to the skull, currently perched somewhat precariously on top of one of the bookshelves. “How would you like… a body?”

“A body,” it repeated. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Completely functional human body?” it asked cautiously.

“Welllll... most likely, yes,” he admitted. “I haven’t _actually_ done this before. But the maths all work.”

The glowing light in the sockets dimmed briefly as it considered. “Alright, count me in. What have I got to lose, my skull?” 

“Marvelous! I’ll go get the spell books and supplies, you… well, you carry on, then.” He spun around and headed back out into the hallway.

“Sherlock!” the skull yelled towards the rapidly departing figure. “Sherlock, _I’ll_ be the one picking my name!”

***

“Johnny? ‘s Harry. Yer big sister. I’m just… I hope you fig’rrred out how to work th’ phone by now… ‘s a very nice phone… I jus’… call me an’ let me know yerrr alright… Yer my baby brother, ‘m supposed to protect you… an’ then you went an’ got shot, and Clara left… ‘m shite at protecting people. Couldn’ protect annnyyyyone. But there was a _thing_ in my head an’ I was sober I swear I was an’ I wanna know yer okay, Johnny. You gotta call me an’ tell me yer okay.

***

“Darling, can we _please_ find somewhere nearby to stop for a bite?” Maura asks her husband. He’s a wonderful man, but he practically needs to be dragged into restaurants when they’re on vacation. And into Starbucks, of course.

She’s already got her map app open and searching by the time Doug’s pulled out their _London A to Zed,_ and then it’s a race to see who can find an acceptable place first.

“There’s a Speedy’s on Baker Street, that’s not too far from here,” she says.

“What’s the address?”

“223 Baker Street, it’s just a bit southwest of the park.”

“I don’t see a Baker Street in here,” he says, tilting the book consideringly, as though expecting it to change if he views it from the right angle. “There’s a Speedy’s at 223 Gloucester Place, though.”

“No,” she says, consulting her map again. “It’s Baker Street. The book is probably out of date. It’s between Gloucester and the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park.”

“It’s a new edition,” he protests. “We bought it for the trip. No Baker Street.”

“Let me see that,” she says, taking the book from his hands. “I’m surprised you can read it at all without your glasses.” She taps it with her finger. “See? Right there.”

He looks again, and his eyes widen slightly. “Huh. Guess you’re right. I swear it wasn’t there a minute ago.” He leans over and kisses her cheek. “You’re clearly the brains of the outfit.”

“Don’t you forget it,” she says fondly.

***

It’s against the rules, but the Ravenmaster gives his charges an extra rabbit this week. He can’t say why, he just can’t rid himself of the feeling that he really, really ought to.

***

No matter what Mike had told him, John was hard-pressed to believe that he’d ever see his wallet again. But if anyone could do it, it would be the mad bloke he’d met yesterday.

He’d dreamt about him last night, one of those odd dreams where everything was and wasn’t familiar at the same time. The details hadn’t remained once he’d woken up, which was probably just as well; ‘You were in my dreams last night’ sounded like a bad pick up line.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said, awkwardly transferring his cane to his left hand to offer his right.

“Sherlock, please,” the man said, reaching his hand out. “And would you prefer Captain or Doctor?”

“John,” John said, smiling. He must have been near wool or something similar because there was a strong static shock as their hands touched, almost painfully strong. “Sorry I’m late, the cabbie had a bit of trouble finding Baker Street.” He’d actually driven around in circles, all the while claiming that in all his thirteen years as a London cabbie he’d never heard of Baker Street. 

John had been very near to demanding he pull over so he could get out and try and find another cab when suddenly the man had braked hard, announced that he knew exactly where Baker Street was, gotten John there in under ten minutes while breaking at least three traffic laws that John had noticed, and then insisted on not letting him pay as a way of apologising for the inconvenience.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “I believe this is yours,” He said, presenting John’s wallet, slightly the worse for wear, as though pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “I’m afraid the money’s gone, but the rest should be intact.”

John began checking it over. “That’s amazing. You’re amazing. Absolutely… How did you…”

Sherlock grinned, clearly pleased with his reaction.

“I was sure I’d never see it again. Bloody hell, even the receipts are here. How much do I owe you?” He hoped it wasn’t completely unreasonable. Not that Sherlock Holmes hadn’t earned it, but he simply didn’t have the money to pay a reward. Then again, anyone as brilliant as Sherlock had probably worked that out already.

“No charge.”

“I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity. Consider it a payment against future favours.”

“Such as?” John asked, cautiously. He didn’t see that he had much to offer.

“Twenty minutes of your time. There’s a flat here I’ve had my eye on, and people usually like to see places before they agree to be flatmates.”

“Who said anything about flatmates?” John asked, confused. “Besides, I can’t afford a place in Central London.”

“Army pension, no current employment or close family… you’re doubtless currently dwelling in some horribly depressing bedsit,” Sherlock said, making an expression of distaste. “Between us we should be able to afford this place, the landlady owes me a favour.”

“Must have been some favour,” John said, looking around. 

Sherlock continued as though he hadn’t heard him. “You should know I sometimes go days without speaking, I play the violin at odd hours, and a third of the criminals in London would love to see me dead.” He paused. “Though I should have it up to half by year’s end. Want to see 221B?”

John Watson had an almost empty bank account, an almost empty empty bedsit, and an almost empty life. He also had a very strong feeling that was about to change.

“Oh god, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please read before you send death threats:
> 
> So, funny story: when I initially saw this prompt on the kinkmeme, I had the broadest outlines of the story down pretty quickly. That is generally how I write: I get a sense of the narrative arc (and usually a few lines here and there) and sort out the details as I go. It’s a bit like a roadtrip, I know the destination but there are inevitably surprises and detours and at least one World’s Largest Ball of Twine along the way. 
> 
> At any rate, when I began _Here Be Dragons_ I knew how they were going to meet again and what would come after as their relationship this time around develops and John learns who he and Sherlock are/were and the adventures they’d have, etc etc. But then as I wrote, HBD became very specifically about them finding each other again, turning itself into a prequel of the story I’d meant to tell. And it kept expanding, because I realised how important this part of the story actually was to the arc of the narrative. And I looked into the distance and decided I didn’t want this to drag into some mad opus of 874/? chapters.
> 
> So here’s the deal: I’m NOT DONE with this ‘verse (now titled The Once and Future BAMF). But this narrative arc feels complete, so this (after the next chapter) is a great stopping point before I continue in the next story.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me and Here Be Dragons, for your feedback and kudos. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate each and every comment I’ve received. I hope you’ll stay around for the next story. If you’re reading this on AO3, subscribe to the series (The Once and Future BAMF) so you don’t miss it.
> 
> Special thanks to my betas/cheerleaders and britpicker, lareinenoire, themegaloo, analineblue, and rosamund, and to stupid_drawings, who kept me company during much of the early writing. I couldn’t have done it without you guys.
> 
> And thank you to the anonymous poster on the Sherlock kinkmeme who came up with the initial prompt. I really had no idea what I was getting in to...

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted anonymously in the kinkmeme, now de-anoned, cleaned up and slightly edited to make more sense overall. Finally putting that minor in Medieval/Renaissance Studies to (strikethrough)good(/strikethrough) questionable use.


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